18 posts tagged “quotes”

To her father this morning: "I like it when I can buy lunch at camp, because Mama's not there, and it's private."

Mama's response: Yeah, that and you think you can get away with buying total crap to eat... But I'm onto you, sister, because I got a printout of your meal purchases.  Cakesters?  Let's see if you're allowed to buy lunch next year.

*****

To her father this evening: "We play this game for twenty points, you versus me.  Whoever wins gets to be the boss of the day tomorrow, and that's going to turn out very well for me."

Mama's response: Of course, because if you win, you'll think you're the boss, and if daddy wins, you'll still end up being the boss because he's a SUCKER.  Since you two have such a swell boss-day planned, can I have tomorrow off?

*****

Of course, not to be outdone, Dash had some last words for me before bed: "Mama, tomorrow I'm going to find some big, huge men, and do you know what I'm going to say to them?  PREPARE TO GET BEANED."

This morning, we all had a hard wake-up.  I spent last night in a tent in the backyard with Petunia, and my air mattress deflated halfway through the night.  Since I also kayaked yesterday, I already had a sore tail end, made no better by half a night on the hard ground.  But since I really enjoyed listening to the wind rustling our forest of tall trees as I watched the sun rise, I'm not complaining -- I'm just sore.

That left the Guv to wrangle Dash in bed all night since Dash wanted no part of sleeping in the tent.  The Guv claims that Dash slept from 9:30 - 4:30 uninterrupted -- but the Guv lay awake for a long time listening to Dash snore and fighting Dash's sideways turns and kicks to his ribs.  When Dash finally woke up around 8, I dragged walked him to the potty straight away.  He wanted me to lift him onto the big potty, so I did.

And I lowered his foot into the toilet. 

Splash!

When something happens that Dash doesn't like, he acts as though you ripped the head off of his favorite teddy bear in front of him just to be mean.  "All hell breaks loose" doesn't describe it.  He has a way of imposing guilt that would make my sixth grade teacher, Sister Mary Rose Anne, beam with pride. 

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," I said, washing his feet in my tub.

He got over it and asked to play Wii with his sister.  After a few games of slot cars, he turned to me and said, "Mama, you're scary."

"Why am I scary, Dash?" I asked.

"Because you're the only one to put me IN the toilet, Mama." 

Fair enough, Dash, fair enough.

I have held my breath for a long time today, for day two of potty training Dash The Impossible has been as seamless as day one.  He's gone #1 and #2 multiple times today.  There was one #2 accident in his pull-up -- while he was running to the potty, though.  I hit the local Dollar General to stock up on some rewards, but I'm not sure I'll need them -- he seems to feel that the act of going, getting praise and flushing it away is reward enough.  I did pick up this Little Critters book as today's reward, and we've read it twenty times already.  So... my prediction is that, by the end of the week, we'll be trying underpants (in the smallest size made, might I add).

Here are some of Dash's recent quotes about this experience:

Last night, we called Grammy to offer a Potty Progress Report.

Dash: "Hi Grammy.  I pooped on the potty.  And now I'm playing with Toxic Play-Doh!"

Mama: "NON-toxic, Dash, NON-toxic..."

Grammy: "Did you really poop on the potty?!  You're such a big boy!  Can I bring you a present when I see you in California?  I'll have a present in my suitcase."

Dash: "Can it be a big one?"

Grammy: "I'm not sure that I can fit a big one in my suitcase, but I can take you shopping and let you pick a toy.  Would you like that?"

Dash: "Or there's UPS."

*****

Dash ruminated after reading his new potty book before bed: "Diapers and pull-ups are for babies.  And I'm a Big Man.  Soon I will drive a motorcycle and be a garbage man and drive I Stink... (pause)... And then I will hug a pillow when I sleep like Daddy.  And I will wear a shirt."  (Dash gets really annoyed when his hairy, hairy dad doesn't wear a shirt to bed -- or any other time, actually.) 

He lounged thoughtfully, looking out our tall windows onto the trees swaying in the dusk and tracing the emerging stars with his little fingers.  "Sing to me, Mama," he asked.  (He NEVER asks for me to sing to him.) 

I started "Twinkle, Twinkle," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Hush-a-Bye," and he said "Not that one."  I started "Go to Sleep," and he said "Not that one."  I asked, "What do you want me to sing, then?"

"Not baby lully songs, Mama," he replied.  "Man songs."

I was cracking up inside.  What's a man song?  Rockstar?  California Girls?  Honky Tonk Badonkadonk?

Finally, I pulled myself together enough to ask, "What's a man song, Dash?"

"About boats.  Sing about boats," he sighed, frustrated. 

After "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," "Row Row Row Your Boat," and "Dip Dip and Swing," he was drifting off to sleep, hugging a pillow, just like his daddy does.  It's bittersweet to see my last baby parting with his baby-ness.  Then again, I think that this is why we parents do this: to see them grow into people who are hopefully even better people than we are, who set off into the world and make it a better place just like we made it a better place by having them.  The circle of life -- it's a beautiful thing.

We've seen little evidence of moving-related stress in our easygoing Petunia.  She has always wanted nothing more than having her dad around has much as possible, and she understands that this move makes that a reality.  She can't wait to walk to meet him for dinner sometime, and she hopes that, every once in a while, she can do her homework in his office.  She's dying to meet her West Coast cousins and is generally excited about exploring California.  Her to-do list includes things like camping in Yosemite, checking out Tahoe and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Dash, on the other hand, does not want to be from California.  He wants to be from New Jersey for the rest of his life.  "Mervont" (what he calls Vermont) is okay only because we could, and did, always go home to New Jersey.  In part because of the giant moving truck that took away all of our stuff, Dash is finally understanding that we don't live in America's armpit New Jersey anymore, and he's not taking it well.  Here are some examples of our very frequent conversations:

Dash, at least twenty times each day: "Why did we sold our house?"

Mama: "We sold our house because we're moving to California."

Dash: "When we're done with California, and when we're done with Mervont, then we move back to New Jersey."

*****
Variation 1:

Dash: "Why did the moving truck take all of our stuff out of our New Jersey house?"

Mama: "The moving truck is taking our stuff to our new house in California."

Dash: "Okay, but after they get there, and after they put the stuff in our new house, can they put it back on the truck and take it back to New Jersey?  Back to our house?"

Mama: "We're going to live in California, Dash, for a few years."

Dash, with increasing anxiety: "No, Mama, we live in New Jersey.  I want to be Wally and Beaver's neighbor.  Can we live at their house next time?"

*****
Variation 2:

Dash: "Where did my swingset go?"

Mama: "A nice family with four children bought our swingset because the people who bought our house in New Jersey didn't want it."

Dash: "Is my swingset going to be in California?"

Mama: "No, but there's a park at the end of our street."

Dash: "When we move back to New Jersey, can I have my swingset back?"

*****

I have to be blunt: this move wasn't hard for me at all.  From the looks of it, our idyllic little town, straight out of Norman Rockwell painting, was the perfect place to raise children.  And I loved many of the people and places there. What wrecked that dream was my husband's long commute and frequent travel, coupled with constant sickness (Dash's especially).  It makes sense to choose to live in a better climate where the Guv can walk to work.  We'll all be together, and well, in one place. 

But it does break my heart that Dash doesn't understand that.  He invokes our beloved neighbors, the Cleavers, almost every day.  Today, he even said, "Can Wally and Beaver move too?" and when I told him that no, the Cleavers were remaining in New Jersey, he cried his little heart out. 

I'll miss them too, Dash, but I won't miss not being able to breathe from spring through fall, or my constant worrying about air quality for your sister, or the repeat visits to hospitals in Philly to address your many issues.  I won't miss feeling like your dad's never home, so much so that I had to outsource my sanity to an au pair.  It's time to move on, hard as it is.  You're only three, but I bet you'll remember this move -- hopefully for the good that's coming more than the heartbreak you feel now.  We can always visit your beloved New Jersey -- but no, we're not moving back.

At the pool this afternoon, Dash saw a lifeguard wearing blue latex gloves to pick up trash. 

He exclaimed, "MAMA, WHO NEEDS BUTT MEDI?" 

I tried to play it off, but the naive 16 year-old lifeguard sensed that he was being addressed, and he approached.  "What did he say?" the lifeguard asked.

"Trust me, you don't want to know," was my response.

Apparently, Dash is now too old to be spoken for by his mother.  He pointed at the lifeguard's hands and rephrased, "Why do you have to give somebody butt medi at the pool?"

Again, the lifeguard asked, "What did he say?"

So I explained, "When Dash gets a fever, we give him suppositories to control the fever. He associates those gloves with the administration of the suppository."

Oh, my, but the lifeguard didn't get it.  "What's a suppository?" the sweet, naive, soon to be red-faced boy asked.

"BUTT MEDI!" Dash replied. 

"Ohhhhhh," the guard muttered as he turned red and resumed his trash duty.  I was going to make some joke about being raised in West-by-God-Virginia and/or the movie Deliverance, but all I could manage through my giggles was the banjo riff... dah dah dah dah dah dah dah dah...

*****
Our fun with Dash didn't end there.  In the locker room changing after the pool, a very elderly women blew her nose while in a stall.  At the top of his lungs, Dash yelled, "MAMA! COOL!  SOME LADY FARTED!"

That time, there was no confusion about what he said.  Seriously, we're going to be lucky if we make it through this summer in Vermont without being kicked out of this family-friendly club!

Two nights ago:

Daddy: "Dash, are you going to sleep in your big boy bed again tonight?"

Dash: "No, because I'm freaking out, and, if I sleep in that bed, something's going out the window!"

(Editorial note from Mama: I'm glad that our house in California is single-story!)

Tonight, Dash had some "issues."  His naps are becoming increasingly irregular (his doing, not mine!), but, if we take a car trip, he's sure to have a little rest.  He woke up from the car nap demanding to be held by Mama for hours, until Daddy offered him some ice cream cake.  Then, of course, Dash only wanted Daddy.  Mental note: buy more ice cream cake. 

Then tonight, Dash wouldn't let Daddy put him to bed, not even in "Mama's bed."  He didn't want a story from Daddy and announced that he'd wait for Mama to get ready for bed.  When I slid under the cover armed with a Curious George book, Dash grabbed my face and said, "Mama, look at me."

With a little hand on each cheek, I turned to look at him.  With a dazzling smile, he said, "Mama's my favorite."

And I didn't even have ice cream cake.

Then he added, "And green.  Green is my favorite too."

So there he lies, asleep in Mama's bed again, diagonal and snoring.  I think that when he was born, we all had "sucker" tattooed on our foreheads in a way that only he can see and exploit -- because you know that I'm going to check every grocery store for green ice cream cake tomorrow!  Oh well, he won't be so sweet and little for that much longer...

Dash, to the Guv tonight, totally deadpan: "One time, when Wish Bear (Petunia) was gone, and Mama was gone, and you were gone, I drank a whole bottle of Diet Pepsi, and then I booted everywhere."

Wow, even Dash, age 3, has caught on that it cannot be good to mainline Diet Pepsi like the Guv does.  200+ ounces a day and counting...

Dash, at the doctor's office yesterday: "What's that?"

Mama: "It's an otoscope."

Dash: "What does it do?"

Mama: "It lets the doctor see into your ears."

Dash: "And what happens?"

Mama: "The doctor can see your ear tubes and if they're working properly."

Dash: "And what next?"

Mama: "The doctor says, 'working' or 'not working."

Dash: "Why?"

Mama: "Because the doctor's job is to look and see if the tubes are doing their job."

Dash: "Why?" ... Etc.

***
We have entered the stage of life where EVERYTHING in Dash's world involves these questions, in this order: What does it do?  What happens?  What next?  Why?  Why?  WHY???  And the funny thing is that it's not annoying - yet.  Petunia barely had this "why" stage, and she never had the "what does this do" phase until recently with her love of science experiments.  Now the Guv and I have to bone up, because we're not quite sure what different parts of tractors do, for example, and "I don't know" leads to a lot of unpleasant screaming.  So either we need to spend our weekend researching everything that does anything, or we need to teach him to use Google right quick.  Or pay Petunia a quarter for every time she can look something up and explain it to Dash... now, there's an idea that might get me some more sleep...

This morning at 7:30, Dash points to the window. "Mama, turn the lights off!"

I ignore him, as he sometimes talks in his sleep.

Dash, more insistent: "Mama, TURN THE LIGHTS OFF!"

Mama: "Dash, the lights ARE off.  That's the sunlight.  It's time to wake up!"

Dash: "No, I don't want to!  Make the sun go off!"  And then he groans, pulls the comforter over his already-sweaty little head, and dozes off for another fifteen minutes.

Thus was the start to another day of refusing to eat.  We're heading out for lunchtime milkshakes.  You know how they say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade?  Well, when life gives you a kid who won't eat, make milkshakes for breakfast, lunch and dinner -- sometimes sneaking in fruit and flaxseed oil or wheat germ.  He may be stubborn, but I'm tricky.  (I almost wrote that I'm smarter, but I'm not so sure about that!)

Both Dash and Petunia have always loved Veggie Tales, videos and books that use cartoonized vegetables and fruits as actors for Biblical lessons.  Dash, who can't stand listening to music (I now blame this on his ear-weirdness and not on rebellion) will dance and sing along to Veggie Tales anytime (I blame this on sheer silliness).  Recently, I bought him a couple of audiobooks, including one about being frightened of the boogieman in the night, titled God Is Bigger.   The chorus is:

Dash will sing this at the top of his lungs while in line at the market, while riding his tricycle, while in the bathtub... anytime, all the time, anywhere. 

So this afternoon, as I'm putting him to nap, he asked: "Mama, what is the boogieman?"

I answered: "There is no boogieman."

Dash: "It's in the song."

Mama: "Well, a boogieman is a monster that isn't real."  (Dash looks scared.)  "It's not real!  And remember (singing): God is bigger!"

Dash: "No, Mama, Buzz Lightyear is bigger.  He's the space commander of the galaxy and he will MESS UP the boogieman.  And GET HIM TO GO AWAY."

God and Buzz Lightyear: Bigger than the boogieman.  Now, stay tuned for: Jesus and Dora: Guiding you on life's path.  And set your DVR for tomorrow's special: the Holy Spirit and Sportacus: Good for your body and your soul.